


Keep From Sinking

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out that some days all Derek says is “I’m sorry,” and variations thereof. Sometimes he addresses Stiles’ chest, sometimes the wall; sometimes he breathes it into Stiles’ hair or whispers it into the crook of his own elbow. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Over and over again.</p><p>That’s only on the worst days, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep From Sinking

Derek likes it when Stiles scratches the hair at the back of his neck. It calms him down, sets his mind at ease. It makes him feel loved.

He’s never said it in so many words, of course, but Stiles knows. He knows it’s true. He knows it’s true because Derek likes it even on his worst days. Those on which he barely speaks, doesn’t get out of bed, and doesn’t eat unless Stiles makes him something – something nutritious but easily digestible, something that can be eaten with a spoon – and divides it into bite-sized heaps on the plate.

Derek, Stiles knows, thinks of it as _can’t_. He _can’t_ speak; he _can’t_ get out of bed; he _can’t_ eat. But Stiles insists on _doesn’t_. _Doesn’t_ sounds more neutral. _Can’t_ blames the body, Derek’s body, therefore Derek by extent. Stiles is of opinion that Derek has already adopted enough blame for a lifetime. So _doesn’t_ it is.

 

He and Scott used to have this running joke about Derek being unable to say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Thank you’. Even though they’d heard him say it once or twice, they thought it improbable that Derek – sarcastic, belittling, hostile as he was – would ever say something like that and mean it.

Turns out that some days all Derek says is “I’m sorry,” and variations thereof. Sometimes he addresses Stiles’ chest, sometimes the wall. Sometimes he breathes it into Stiles’ hair or whispers it into the crook of his own elbow. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Over and over again.

Stiles has long given up on “Don’t be,” and “It’s not your fault,” and “Stop it, Derek, _please_.” Eventually he gave up on “It’s okay,” as well. Now, he just brushes his fingertips through the bristly hair lining the nape of Derek’s neck as they both wait for Derek’s mouth to stop working and his heartbeat to slow into the forgiving rhythm of sleep.

That’s only on the worst days, though.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wonders sometimes how, back then, he and Scott had even managed to make any assumptions about Derek and the kind of things he would or wouldn’t say. They barely knew him. They knew he was older, but not by how many years exactly. They knew his family had died in a fire, but not how many people it consisted of, or why they were all in Beacon Hills that night, or anything about Derek’s role in the matter. They knew he’d left town with Laura for a few years, but not where they’d fled.

Everything else they knew – or thought they knew – about Derek came from brief and hurried interactions in often life-threatening circumstances. Which wasn’t much either. Hell, they hadn’t even known the guy was living in a decaying loft until they all needed a place to hide out from the alpha pack.

“Please tell me you’re not sleeping on the fucking _floor?_ ” Stiles had said, incredulous. Derek glared at him in response and gestured at a threadbare blanket that lay crumpled in a corner. There was a spider sitting on top of the blanket. Stiles tip-toed across the room to crush it with the heel of his shoe, muttering “The things I do for you,” under his breath.

He’d meant plural _you_ , as in _you goddamn werewolves_ , but when he turned around he caught Derek looking taken aback in a vaguely pleased way before his face slid back into a more familiar expression of exasperation. (Nowadays, Stiles likes to refer to that nanosecond as ‘the moment I started to fall out of hate with Derek Hale’.)

 

Post-alpha pack, Derek grudgingly surrendered his credit card so Stiles could hire some construction workers and, once the place had been fixed up, rent a truck for a road trip to IKEA. It broke down on the way back to Beacon Hills. While waiting for AAA they had a short but heated fight by the side of the road and then went to have loud, sweaty sex on the still saran-wrapped king size memory foam mattress in the back of the truck.

“We’re totally bonding here, buddy,” Stiles gasped against the side of Derek’s neck as Derek fucked into him at a relentless, impeccably rhythmic pace. “Can’t go denying our, fuck, our – oh, _fuck_ – bond after this, fuck, _Derek_.”

Derek chuckled, stubble sand-papering across Stiles’ cheek.

 

To this day Stiles is convinced that, had it been up to Derek to make the first move after the IKEA trip incident, they never would’ve seen each other again. (Derek’s standard reply when this comes up in conversation is, “That’s not true. You’re so full of shit, Stilinski.”) But Stiles, ever-perseverant, showed up at the loft the next morning at nine o’clock sharp – as agreed upon before the incident – and fanatically began to hammer furniture into existence. (One afternoon not too long ago, a languid, half-asleep Derek admitted that he thinks of this as ‘the moment I started to fall in love with _Stiles Stilinski_ of all people’. It’s possibly one of the most romantic things he’s ever said.)

At first they both pretended nothing had happened, but after about two hours Stiles’ inner thigh seized up. He shot into an upright position and gritted out, “Jesus _Christ_ ,” through his teeth. Derek said, “What?” and Stiles felt his face heat up and went, “Nothing, just— my muscles,” and Derek ducked his head and _grinned_ at the bookcase he was working on. Stiles crossed the room on impulse.

They hungrily jerked each other off and then dozed for a while on the mattress that lay, now unwrapped, in the middle of the living room. Derek’s hand felt comfortably heavy in the small of Stiles’ back. Stiles couldn’t keep his own hands from wandering. When his fingers arrived at the edge of Derek’s hairline, Derek hum-groaned and rustled closer, the bridge of his nose bumping against Stiles’ collarbone.

“You like that, huh?” Stiles murmured, and Derek nodded once. No snide remark, no defense mechanism kicking in; just a nod, an oddly vulnerable nod that made Stiles wish Derek’s mouth was closer to his so they could make out some more. Forever, preferably.

It took the two of them all day to make the loft look livable. (They could’ve called the rest of the pack for help, of course, but for some reason neither Stiles nor Derek mentioned that option.) By the time they were gravitating toward the front door, Stiles was completely exhausted and Derek kept rolling his shoulders, pulling pained faces. There was wood dust in his stubble. Stiles reached up to brush it away. Derek moved in fluidly and kissed him. The smooth skin of his upper arms was warm and firm underneath Stiles’ palms.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Derek mumbled against Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles said, “What?”

“I mean,” Derek said, taking a step back. “It’s not… I _want_ — it’s just that we shouldn’t.”

Stiles said, “Derek.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Wait. Let me think.”

“Maybe you should try this thing called thinking _before_ you speak.”

“Yeah, you’re really one to talk about that.”

“Asshole.”

“Idiot.”

Stiles gasped in semi-feigned offendedness. “I’m never helping you move again.”

“Technically I didn’t _move_ ,” Derek pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it kinda boils down to the same thing, seeing as you somehow managed to live in this place like a fucking homeless person for God knows how long.”

Derek rolled his eyes again. “I probably shouldn’t be surprised at hearing such an oxymoronic statement come from such a moronic mouth.”

“You love my moronic mouth,” Stiles said, which was somewhat of a gamble, given the relative precariousness of their relationship at that point, but Derek looked away and one corner of his mouth twitched, so it was worth it. Stiles slid his hand up from Derek’s shoulder into his hair. Derek’s head tilted back into his touch. His eyelids were almost completely shut, lashes spread out across the skin beneath. “We shouldn’t do this,” he repeated, slowly.

“Why? Because of my age or something?”

Derek looked down, nodded.

Stiles dropped his hand. His cheeks were tingling, and not in a good way. “You know, I generally don’t really do this kinda shit with just about anyone,” he said. He felt like saying _dude, you break my virginity, you buy my virginity_ , but somewhere in the lines around Derek’s mouth he could read that this really wasn’t the moment.

“I know that,” Derek said. His eyes blinked up to meet Stiles’ again. They looked dark, grave. “Me neither. I swear.”

“And I don’t, like, assemble fucking IKEA furniture for just about anyone.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah, I figured. Don’t think I didn’t notice you put the backboard of my wardrobe upside down.”

Stiles punched him in the arm. “Shut up, dude. I’m trying to be serious here.”

“I realized. I’m surprised. Marginally impressed, too.”

“God, you’re such an _asshole_ ,” Stiles said impatiently. “I can’t believe I allowed your dick inside of me. Can I, like, retroactively take back that handjob?”

Derek raised one eyebrow at him.

“All right, that’s a pretty shitty thing to say,” Stiles admitted with a sigh. “I obviously don’t mean it anyway. Your dick is great, I— whatever. So, that’s it, then? Hands off ’till my next birthday? Just, like, on principle? What, you suddenly sprouted a moral compass sometime during the past five seconds or something like that?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Oh, what the hell. “Any chance I can persuade”—Stiles waggled his eyebrows, trailing his fingertips across Derek’s belt buckle—“you to change your mind?”

“Nope,” Derek said. He swung open the front door and gently pushed Stiles outside. “Thanks for the help. Now get off my porch before the neighbors start asking questions.”

“By the way, I’m throwing you a housewarming this Saturday!” Stiles yelled over his shoulder at the closing door. “Asshole!”

 

* * *

 

They didn’t make it to Stiles’ eighteenth birthday.

After the housewarming party, Stiles made sure to get invited to Derek’s place once or twice a week. He figured Derek didn’t have a lot of social contact besides the pack; also, the chaise longue Stiles had picked out for the loft was insanely comfortable. Plus, sex with Derek had been pretty great, and it turned out the guy was kind of all right to be around once he let down his guard, so. Yeah. Stiles spent one or two afternoons a week at Derek’s, soliloquying about his day or channel surfing or doing homework at the kitchen table while Derek sat folded up in the window seat with a book and a mug of tea and his hair all productless and soft-looking. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t.

 

A couple of months into their tentative friendship, Derek told Stiles about Kate. The story came pretty much out of left field and was enough to make Stiles back off for a good few weeks. No more thinly veiled blowjob offers or too-suggestive remarks. No unnecessary touches, even. Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

But then Derek fell asleep on the couch after his daily workout one afternoon. He lay stretched out on his front, breathing deeply, the hem of his tank top inching up his back and the biceps of his left arm bulging underneath his cheek and his face slack and young and— fuck. As Stiles stared, he realized that _fuck, I’m falling for this asshole_.

He shoved his chair back, started to gather his things. He was zipping up his backpack when Derek mumbled, “Stiles,” and then, “Where you going?”

“Uhm.” Stiles cleared his throat. “Home, I, uh, my dad texted, he—”

Derek shifted onto his side. “C’mere,” he murmured, blinking sleepily. Stiles did. He sat down on the edge of the couch cushion. His traitorous hand went to rest on Derek’s bared hip. He glared at it. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Derek reached for his face.

“My birthday isn’t for another month,” Stiles said as Derek’s fingertips pressed into the back of his neck. “Derek.”

“You’re not me, I’m not her,” Derek said, and it was only when their tongues were sliding together and Derek was making pleased, pleasant noises that Stiles allowed himself to admit how much he’d liked this, how much he’d missed it, how much he craved it, wanted it.

They didn’t even bothering to remove any clothes, just rubbed off against each other’s thigh and put their hands on every inch of skin they could reach. Derek gasped, “St _iles_ ,” as he came. It was the most touching way Stiles had ever heard anyone say his name.

“One day we might even make it to an actual bed,” Stiles told the back of the couch. He felt warmly surprised at the rumble of Derek’s laugh against his chest.

 

* * *

 

Approximately three weeks after Stiles had said, “So, are we, like, in a relationship, or what?” and Derek had said, “Jesus _Christ_ ,” and, “Fuck,” and then, “Yeah, sure, whatever,” (half-smiling all the while), Stiles went over to Derek’s place unannounced.

He’d figured it wouldn’t matter much; Derek was terrible at reading and replying to text messages, so it would have been kind of pointless to send him a ‘hey dude my last two classes got canceled, I’m coming over for mutual blowjobs y/y?’ heads-up. Besides, Derek used to show up everywhere suddenly and soundlessly all the time. And, though lacking in experience RE: the whole relationship thing, Stiles was pretty sure it included the right to show up and give surprise head to his ridiculously good-looking boyfriend.

He was wrong. He could sense it the instant Derek opened the door. Derek _must_ haveheard him pull up in front of the building; the jeep sounded distinct even to Stiles’ less advanced ears, and Derek was always hyperaware of his surroundings. Even so, it took him a while to answer to the buzzer, and he appeared in the loft doorway looking confused and irritated. He was wearing sweatpants and a faded gray tank top. He looked unshowered. It was three p.m.

“Hi,” Derek said.

“Uh,” Stiles said. “Hi. My last two classes got canceled, I thought I’d stop by— is this not a good time?”

“No, it’s fine.” Derek leaned in, stiltedly, for a kiss. He was warm and firm to the touch as ever, but his living room was dark and quiet, curtains closed, radio off. When Stiles automatically hit the light switch next to the front door, Derek flinched. The couch was a mess of pillows and blankets. The loft itself smelled vaguely off, in a way Stiles couldn’t really identify.

He turned to Derek to say something – something stupid, something sarcastic, he doesn’t remember – and was struck by the look of him. Derek’s eyes were averted, dull; the intimidating mass of his muscle seemed to have shrunk down somehow. He looked like he didn’t want Stiles to be there. He looked like _he_ didn’t want to be there. He looked like he didn’t want to be anywhere.

“Derek,” Stiles said. “Do you need me to leave?”

Derek swallowed, breathed in, closed his eyes, breathed out, opened them again. “Yes,” he admitted, quietly.

Stiles’ heart sank, but he nodded and turned around. He noticed there weren’t any dishes in the sink. There weren’t any on the coffee table either. Derek tends to let a small army of used, empty cups and plates run rampant in the apartment throughout the day and then take them down all at once in a mass midnight clean-up operation. Stiles, contrarily, always rinses his dishes right after using them. It’s one of those irreconcilable differences between them. “Have you not eaten anything today?” he asked.

“Stiles,” Derek said. “Please— please go away.”

“One question,” Stiles said. “Let me… one question, and then I’ll go.” Derek didn’t say anything, so he continued, “Do you want me gone because you don’t want me here, or do you want me gone because you don’t want anyone to…” How to phrase this? “To see you like this?”

Derek looked at him.

Stiles put his fingertips on Derek’s forearm. Derek frowned down at it, at the place where their skin was touching. “The latter,” he said with audible difficulty.

“Okay.” Stiles nodded, trying to process this information correctly. “I— maybe you… just hear me out, yeah?” He paused. No reaction. “Okay, so how about you go take a shower or something, and I’ll clean up here, and I’ll make you some food, and some tea, and then we can lie down on the couch and watch bad television or whatever and you can decide whether or not you want me here right now. You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t have to touch me, you can send me away whenever you want. Or I can stay, if that’s what you need.” Derek wasn’t moving. “Will you let me do that?”

Derek said, “Why?”

“Because I want to be there for you,” Stiles said. “Even— no, not ‘even’, _also_ when you want to hide from the world or don’t want to talk or touch or—”

“No,” Derek said. He looked pained. “It’s— it’s more than that, it goes deeper than that, it’s, I…” He pressed his free hand to the center of his chest.

Stiles swallowed, squeezing Derek’s wrist softly. “Go take a shower,” he said. “I’ll make you some food.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Derek was out of commission for one day only, followed by a period of several weeks in which everything was okay. Sometimes he had a bad week followed by an okay week followed by a bad week followed by two okay weeks. During the summer before Stiles left for college (a two-hour drive – he could come up to Beacon Hills every weekend if he wanted to. He wanted to), Derek was pulled under for a month straight. It was hard, hard on them both, but they worked through it together. They worked well together. Stiles was Derek’s anchor and Derek made Stiles feel calm and content even when Derek himself wasn’t, couldn’t remember what it was like, couldn’t even formulate words or shift onto his other side in bed.

“I never thought I’d be able to tolerate anyone near me during all this,” Derek told him once, on the morning after a bad day, and all Stiles could hear was _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

 

* * *

 

They’re on the couch – TV turned on but muted; Derek curled up on his side with his head on Stiles’ thigh; Stiles sitting up with his laptop balancing on the armrest, working on an end-of-term paper – when Derek says, “Thank you.”

His voice sounds clear but pained, as though the words are glued to the inside of his throat and the effort to tear them loose hurts. Stiles knows not to ask for elaboration, knows to pass his hand across Derek’s hair once before returning it to his keyboard. He knows things will be better for Derek tomorrow, or the day after, or the week after. He knows that even if things are not better for Derek tomorrow or the day after or even the week after, they _will_ get better at some point after that. And he knows that somehow, somewhere, even on the worst days, Derek knows it, too.

He scratches his nails through the hair at the back of Derek’s neck and says, “I love you, you know.”

Derek exhales and presses his cheek deeper into Stiles’ thigh and Stiles knows it means that Derek loves him back.

**Author's Note:**

> “If you are chronically down, it is a lifelong fight to keep from sinking.” ― Elizabeth Wurtzel, _Prozac Nation_
> 
> No two brains work the same way and everyone might experience depression differently, which is why I refrained from labeling Derek’s situation within the fic itself. Please don’t view this as an authoritative description of how mental illness works or how to deal with it (damn it Jim, I’m a writer, not a doctor).
> 
> Come hang out with me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com).


End file.
